Martsirt
by ZannEsuSeer
Summary: NOTE:HALF OF THE QUOTES ARE IN TAGALOG - Years ago after Diremyth left the village of Martsirt to journey through earth as a wanderer in search of an unknown purpose in an unknown world. See the whole story, from the holy beginning ... to the unholy end.
1. The Prologue

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


MARTSIRT

By Dominick

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"What fires burn within my heart and force me to contend

With the perils that await me at this tragic journey's end?

  
  


I have walked the roads that lead to Hell, I have challenged all but Fate.

I have fought and bled and carried on just to reach this final gate.

And now the task before me looms, this dire deed undone;

I shall make my stand against the Three until the battle's won

  
  


What fear or wound could ever still this last defiant cry,

As I stand against the Shadow 'neath the endless burning sky?"

  
  


- C. Vincent Metzen

  
  


Regrettably, I was the only man in the little village of Martsirt who knew about the Spiritstone concealed underneath our village's ancient chapel. As the last descendant of the time-honored Solmire clan, I alone knew the truth about what this minute scarlet stone held locked within it. Maybe if I'd told them all about it, our quiet little village would have been spared. Perhaps this horrible creature would have never been born.

In truth, I suspected that it was the Deacon Enero who first fell victim to the Spiritstone's resistless force. He had been sent from the merchant city Neitorp as a missionary of the Cisum Church. Veiled with the Holy Light as he was, no one even thought of the treachery he proved to be capable of. It was Enero who discovered the glowing-red stone within the labyrinth under the Chapel . . . It was he who shattered it.

Whether it was insanity or some other reason that made him do it, Enero released upon us an unspeakable horror, Diremyth a demon from the underworld. Diremyth was fought, defeated, and imprisoned inside the Spiritstone, by my ancestors. And now was set loose upon our world once again. Somehow, Diremyth used his hell-born powers to mutilate our chapel into a gateway that led straight into the gaping mandible of the underworld itself. His murderous servants took up residence within our holy church and killed anyone foolish enough to try and stop their master. Even our noble King Edward, fell under Diremyth's power and spiraled down into the depths of lunacy and turmoil. As our king gripped the land with a fist of iron, his only son, Prince Marc, was kidnapped by Enero and taken away into our now tainted monastery. Diremyth used his power to twist and create monsters and creatures from Prince Marc's nightmare. We hopelessly gazed as creatures of evil under the earth began to venture into our tiny village, terrorizing all who had chosen to stay.

In the day we worked our farmlands as we always had, trying not to notice the growing sense of fright which radiated from our ruined chapel. By night, we huddled with our families and prayed for the light of morning to come. After what seemed like an eternity, people came and made their appearance.

A raging river of heroes and adventurers from all across the world came to investigate the rumors they had heard about the evil in Martsirt. Some came seeking great wealth and glory, while others sought to test themselves against the grotesque monsters which slept underneath the ground. Even wizards from the ancient Nimativ Mage Clan came to study the evil that had awakened in our fair village. Though the many adventurers nearly took all our supplies and basic needs, they were our only hope for salvation.

Amidst all the warriors and sorcerers, there was one man, quiet and somber, who stood out from the rest. None of us caught his name, or spoke more than just a few words to him. Yet he had a certain calm and focused appearance that made even the strongest of the other would-be heroes quiver. It was this mysterious man who fought his way into the bowels of our church. It was he who was bathed in the blood of his own and that of his enemies. It was he who finally beat Diremyth . . . or so it seemed.

When I close my eyes, I can hear the sound of Diremyth's tortured death-cry echoing in my ears. It rumbled up from the deep earth and shattered the windows of our chapel and made deaf those who were standing outside. It may only have been my imagination, but I distinctly remember the sound of a young child screaming in the midst of the wretched roar. The echoes of that cry still torture the few hours of sleep I am able to get.

I distinctly remember looking at the blood-soaked warrior as he crossed the church's stone steps and looked out into the light of the sun. He looked as if he had walked through Hell itself, and who's to say? . . . Maybe he had. He fell down onto his knees and in his hands he held a bag. Strangely it seemed that inside was a ball or a circular object. But I already jumped to a conclusion that it was neither. I presumed that inside lay the head of the traitor, and deacon, Enero. The nameless one rested in my hut for that whole night, but before he slept he gave me the sack. Although I never opened it I presumed that it was the head of Enero. In the morning, when he awoke, my eyes were drawn to a strange wound on his forehead. The wound looked as if something that was alive, burrowed deep into his forehead. But since it seemed that the wound was already healed. I never questioned him about it.

The little village of Maltsirt was never so happier. Nature seemed to be pleased as well. Flowers jumped from their slumber, and grass grew from the once unholy earth. Forgotten laughter began to appear through the air and little tugs could be seen at the sides of the villagers faces.

The chapel's dungeons were cleared out to make a new, holy, sanctified church. All the pathways leading to the stained catacombs were lucked up to never be used again. Traveling warriors coming to village seems to steadily decrease, while the joy continued to accumulate.

We all believed that our village had been saved, and we threw a big party in rewards upon our nameless hero. Despite the praises and honors we gave him, he slipped deeper and deeper into a depression. My imagination couldn't picture the horrors he had seen beneath the dark earth. I could only see through my eyes what our once tainted monastery had done to his heart and his mind.

He stayed in Martsirt for quite some time. He had no family and nowhere else to go, so it seemed logical that he should be welcomed in Martsirt. Though he was polite to those who came to him, he was usually left alone and kept to himself. He seldom came out of the new hut we had built for him. Shuu, the innkeeper of Martsirt suggested that we throw another celebration in the hope that a strong drink and good company would snap him out of his dark mood. We were deeply mistaken. At some point during the celebration he slipped away and left us having a party for no one. Later in the evening I paid a visit to his home. Nothing in Martsirt, nor the whole world could have prepared me for what I saw in his hut.

The nameless warrior sat along in his own hallway. Swaying back and forth, side to side, and muttering to himself in different languages, some of which had not been used in centuries. Some of the languages were: Naoi, the language of the Ogre; Peguide the language of the Mandrake; And Daemon, the language of the Undead. When he turned toward me, the firelight glinted off his tortured features, revealing the distorted image of a man who was no longer a man. His eyes glimmered with a crimson glow and an eerie red light pulsed from the hood of his cloak. The wound on his forehead had opened . . . And I thought I saw . . . No, it was probably just a trick of the light playing with an old man's overactive imagination.

I asked him if he was feeling okay, the only answer was a constant ramble. I knew a few words from the Ogre, Mandrake, and the Undead languages. I translated them in my head and came out with the words "seek" "destroy" and "vengeance". I was deeply concerned by the whole event and started to go back to the party in order to bring help, when suddenly he jumped up, grabbed me by my neck, and held a sharp blade to my throat. He spoke with an icy voice that filled my heart with paralyzing poison. "The time has come to leave this place. My brothers await me in the east. Their chains will bind them no longer." He let go of me, screamed in pain, and cut his own wrist. He once again spoke in the languages. I froze and translated in my mind. He was saying "Equi, Equi . . ." which translated to "Run, Run. . ." What could I do? I ran.

That day was the last day I saw him. Our nameless hero left Martsirt early the next morning. Later I heard from the watcher of the eastern gate that he went through the gate with only a pack of scrolls and his sturdy sword. I can only guess what he went searching for. Shortly after his departure, our worst nightmares came true. The demonic servants of our chapel came back. The malicious creatures of the night returned to our village.

Now I am the last survivor of the Solmire Clan and the last survivor of the village of Martsirt. I ran away from our village the day our nameless warrior left. All of others stayed, only to be slaughtered by the minions of a greater evil. Why the monsters have returned and why they butchered so many innocents men, women, and children? I will never know. All that I am certain of is that their arrival is somehow connected with the nameless one's departure . . . I have written all of this down in the hopes that someone will find the notes and ideas of an old man and attempt to right what is wrong.

I expect that my life will soon end, and maybe these writing will help to prevent this tragedy from beginning the end of other villages. I will remain here in the village of Maltsirt, until either help arrives, or the creatures find me first, because as dangerous it is, I cannot bring myself up to leaving this dismal place. My surroundings are dead trees, my family are all but corpses. Heaven help your lowly servant.

Seek out the nameless wanderer. Find out what he is searching for. I fear that Martsirt is only the first of many villages to be dissipated by the evil he sought to fight.


	2. Riah Imprisoned

  
  


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Ang espada ng katarungan ay matulin at matalas

The sword of justice is swift and sharp

* * * * * * * * *It is in the insane asylum in this merchant city that I've been placed. I was once known as the scholar, Riah. I have been placed in this wretched place for the time being, for numerously individuals have pictured me as a lunatic.

I have carried the burden. I have performed the work of heaven. I have performed the work of hell. As a young man I hear clearly babble. But as one who has been tortured, these sounds are depicted as screaming and laughing, constant screaming and laughing. It sounded like they were screaming, laughing, and calling for me. Who's to say, maybe they were. Maybe I was insane.

I've been writing in this journal now for quite some time. You my dear journal book are the only friend to me. You can hear my words, and my thoughts. I will pour my visions and words into you like a fountain of knowledge. I only hope that evil does not discover you first. For evil will then know my thoughts, be inside my head, inside my very soul. Evil is the reason I am in here. The truth is too terrifying and horrendous to those of more joyful lives. They choose to lock me up, than face the truth. It was their choice to ignore me. It was their choice to die.

On an evening with the sun shining bright, A man who awkwardly staggered into my cell. He wore an ebony colored cloak and carried an ivory colored object. This object was of petty importance to me at the moment. His guise was shrouded in the cloak of shining black and although I could visualize his frame, his face was equivalent to the amount of mystery of why he had come.

I peered at the gray, cold, hard stone trying hopelessly to be picking at something that didn't seem to be there. Something shiny, something bright, and the hue of the golden sun. My attention snapped when the man slammed the doors behind himself. Fortified doors, the only way out. The way out to freedom, the way out to the world of the living, for I was dead, in my own eyes.

The cloaked figure called my name and I wreathed and turned, trying to adjust myself upright. The restraining jacket I had on was exceedingly uncomfortable and rather difficult to move in. He called my name again, and I looked straight up, balancing myself with my knees. He was standing against the window. The sun made him appear brighter and suddenly my eyes flashed.

Behold, I saw his wings, his beautiful angelic wings. Growing out of his back, swaying to a wind I could not feel. Dancing with invisible air. Gleaming in the superfluously bright sunlight. My eyes flashed again. His wings were gone, and the sunlight suddenly got swept by a cloud. Darkness filled my cell.

The cloaked figure called my name and told me that he's been searching for me. Searching for a long time. To my surprised he sat down, and fixed himself on a stool. Little bits of white seemed to be trickling down the cloaked man's face. Though I could not see his face, I told myself it was only a trick of the eye. I realized he was leaning against the wall and quickly pushed myself to the other side, wishing to not get too close.

In a sad tone I whispered. "What fires burn within my heart and force me to contend, with the perils that await me at this tragic journey's end". He asked me why I would repeat such an old poem. I replied that it reminded me of my own, tragic, miserable life.

Seeing how he seemed placate, I grabbed my pillowcase from off my bed and pulled from it a slip of paper that began my journey. I handed it to him and he read it out loud.

  
  


Dear Enero,

  
  


I write you to address my growing concerns regarding your recent contemptuous speech and that of your fellow deacons. For the past few months, I have seen a certain shadowing of your spirits that I can hardly account for. You and your brothers are First amongst the Chosen of the Cisum Church to lead King Edward's land into the light. If the people or the press as so much as suspect a rift between the Cisum and the Solmire, I fear we would lose much of the control we have gained over this ancient, troubled land.

Our line was charged, longs ago, with watching over the world and its peoples. As you know, it is our duty to spread, enforce, and protect the glory of the Light to all corners of the known world, whether it be welcomed or not. But most importantly, the Solmire entrusted your Church to maintain the wards that keep our dark guest chained beneath ruined temples in Maltsirt, Neitorp, and Tul Nielog. Since it has been your only responsibility to safeguard the Spiritstone in Maltsirt, I must wonder if perhaps your dread task isn't affecting your noble spirits in some malign way.

Whatever the cause of your recent rebellions against the Solmire, I wish to see you retract as both the death of the Cisum and the Solmire could mean no protection against darkness. We the Solmire have been diminishing over the past because of very strong evil, and very weak faith. If you have not the strength of good will to perform your duties like a true servant of the light, then I must implore you to find someone who can. The binding of Diremyth is paramount to the safety and the future of the Cisum and Solmire Alliance. I will not see our churches threatened by the pettiness and jealousy of its servants.

  
  


Sincerely,

Alabostir of the Solmire

  
  


At me he gazed for what seemed like an eternity and finally spoke. "Maltsirt?" he said in a bewildered tone. Maltsirt had been entirely demolished by creatures of great horror, I explained. He asked me of the Solmire. I told him that there was only one surviving person of the Solmire clan. Osor, the surviving Solmire. I abruptly paused for quite some time, then I said he also lived in Martsirt.

Alabostir, I commented, was the patron of the Solmire, had been tragically lured into a river by the song of a siren. When the siren sang, he came towards her charming, yet deadly song, only to be ripped apart as he lovingly gazed upon her beautiful face.

Sad isn't it? He muttered with a slight sound of amusement in his voice. With an astonished look on my face, I blinked, and again came the vision.

His mantle had turn in a shade of blinding white. His wings had returned and had once again oscillated to the rhythm of a noiseless drum. This time I heard sounds. A choir of angelic voices seemed to radiate from the man. Once again I blinked and the room was once again engulfed in darkness.

I thought for a moment. The robe of white, the luminous feathery wings, the angelic music. Wheels of knowledge began to gyrate in my head, and I finally realized who the cloaked man was. The archangel Ledatic, I should have known.

Ledatic, I said, I should've known you'd travel in disguise . . . they're always watching. He shifted his stance and sighed deeply. He said that I've been hiding so much, he stand I seemed like I didn't want to be found.

I started to whimper. Its not my fault, I exclaimed. He looked at me with eyes I could not see. I remember this clearly, dear journal, for his words spread through my veins like poison. "Not your fault?" He said, "Tell me why this whole subject is not your fault."

The wanderer I said, the once good man from Maltsirt. This all originated from him.


	3. The Massacre at the Seven Archer's Inn

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Ang calsada ng impiyerno ay lagi daan? kalakip magandang hanarin The road to hell, is always paved with good intentions.

  
  


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It was in my days at the Rogue Citadel, where I resided, attempting to seek refuge with those of other outcasts. To hide from my dreams. To hide from my memories. A fire was burning and I sat in the corner of the "Seven Archers Tavern", smoking some Narlat weed from my wooden pipe. I recall feeling soporific and woozy, it was the smoke and the surroundings I presumed.

The skimpy, little bartender, a Halfling I presumed, came up to me and asked if I wanted anything. I gazed down at him with my woeful eyes and shook my hand. He sighed and continued to stroll to the next table, asking if they wanted something to drink. Poor fellow, I thought to myself, but not as poor as me. I had not relaxed in ages.

It was I who fought sleep. It was I who denied food. It was I who refused drink. For if by some reason I relaxed, the memories of the monastery came back. Macabre creatures, appalling beasts. They were dreams, they were memories. But I couldn't tell the difference. Terror and fright always have a way of twisting your thoughts.

It was nightfall, a fortnight since I embraced sleep. The weeping winds cried my name, a snowstorm had been created by the north wind. I covered myself with my only cloak and huddled in the bottom right corner of the tavern. A gazed at the wooden floor, glaring at a hole in the floor, wondering how it got there, how it was formed, how it was made, then I realized I was going undoubtedly shifting into a state of paranoia.

The wooden door of the inn slammed, a man wandered in, dressed in rags, dragging a stalwart sword. The sword seemed like it was carrying the man, for the man seemed so weak he used the sword as a walking stick. The cold zephyr of wind seems not to cover him, as the rest of us. Warmth was surrounding him . . . or rather heat. Not only did this aura shield him from the chilling beasts, but it also let out a weak but malicious aura, this aura felt familiar, it felt . . . alive.

Was this individual my dream? Or was he my memory . . . Faint recollections of the wrecked monastery came from him. The cloak, the sword, it all seemed connected to me somehow. My eyes widened with fear. Was this man the growing evil sought to follow me in my dreams? Was this man, a man who could hardly withstand the weight of his own sword, be the burning terror which made me flee to this desolated place?

The people in the tavern cast their eyes at the wanderer for a second and then quickly continue with their business. Drinking ale, continuing with their affairs, they never had to think about demons or evil. I was filled with ingenue jealousy.

My once immobile body, soon began to shake. My rising hopes for normalcy and freedom began to plummet like a falling star. Fear washed over the inn with cold and wind, as a wraith of chilling ice danced on the floor. The door of the inn retreated to the ground as the cavalry of the northern winds made strike after strike of frigid onslaught. The candles withered and died as the last visitor of warmth left the inn.

The most staunch men, seeing the catastrophe, picked up a nearby square table and forcefully shoved it into the doorway of the burning cold. Quietly, almost silently, the men crept back into the sits, while the thudding of frozen arrows made rasping noising on the stark, wooden shield.

Unspoken glances were thrown at the weak man, as the disaster happened only minutes after his arrival. Then the weak man began to cough . . . cough uncontrollably as if his body was trying to push out an object of great mass. This was taken as humorous, by the dim-witted, yet brawny men, as small drops of crimson water drifted from the weak man's mouth to the floor. No one came to help him, no one came to give him comfort, no one came to offer support . . . soon they will wished they had, for from his spilled blood came the slaughtered blood of those around him.

The man stopped coughing and for an instant the wind stopped. The onslaught of burning cold remained choked as the army of winter slowly dropped their silvery white weapons onto the snowy ground beneath. . . Then a complete blast of fiery snow collided with the wooden shield leaving no armor for those unprotected from the frozen horde. Amidst all the confusion and bewildered cries a slight snicker could be made. The man . . . the weak man was laughing, but his voice was not of any man. His voice was filled with the touch of a apparition and the hatred of a murdered soul. His cloak itself slowly changed from a murky brown to a burning, blood-thirsty, crimson. As he stood up . . . for a split second I could see his face. I was prepared for an trouncing feeling of fright, a face of unmitigated hatred, but what came to me was the sight of a man who was lost within his own body, a desolate and melancholy man, subjugated only to the mercy of his oppressor. He collapsed to the floor and began to tremble.

What I saw at that moment was not meant for human eyes. The weak man what on all fours screaming, and as he screamed, a could hear the soft whimper of a little child. A child defenseless and innocent. I crept farther into the crack in the wall, and watched in horror as the minions of the underworld crept into the inn.

Horrible monstrosities of sheer terror crept out from the floorboards; Flesh bats from the darkened caves of the western mountains flew from an outstretched window and began to maul those standing near; Winter's fury made powerful eruptions of frozen lava which then rained down upon the powerless roof. Unlit candles began to ignite as small demons of everlasting flame crept from them and started a fiery dance that began to burn away at anything they stepped on; Skeletons and corpses dead for aeons began to rise and smile menacingly with toothless grins and bare cheekbones.

I gaped in awe as the strong men began battle with the unmerciful army. Blood ran through the tavern like a river of endless blood, flesh split as claws, bones, and snow pawed remorselessly at the men. I felt human souls drift slowly toward the sky as I saw human bodies drift slowly toward the ground. Overturned mugs and toppled tables lay stretched on the ground as spilt ale and spilt blood mixed quietly on the floor. Heads rolls, limps flew, spirits fled . . . I watched hopelessly as the whole tavern was set ablaze by the everlasting fire witches as they danced rhythmically to an silent drum. Then it all stopped: The armed horde of minute winds calmly retreated back to the northern mountains to rest; The horrendous monsters of demonic plague crept slowly into the bottomless floorboards as small trails of bloody ale followed them; The flesh bats screeched their final cry and transformed into burnt ashes drifting slowly to the floor; The small demons of endless flame took leave and jumped head first into now lit candles; The skeletons and now risen cadavers collapsed as their unholy puppeteer let go of their invisible strings.

A through the burning flames and the ceaseless sea of carcasses, I saw a figure stand up . . . It was the weak man . . . He gazez in my directions . . . and walked through the opened door, unaffected by the scorching fire.

I do not know why I followed him, or how I got out of their alive. I do not know where he was leading me, or what his true form was. But I do know this . . . I am lucky to be alive . . . or am I?


	4. Sorceresses and Paladins

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Lahat ng tao ay mamamatay

All men will die.

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The athletic, affable, and self-assured Sorceress is nothing like scholarly bookworms hidden away from civilization. The Sorceresses of the Zann Esu possess many of the same skills as the male member of the Eastern Nimativ mage clans, but excel at the use of Elemental magic. Like most mages they consider melee combat vulgar, and use magic almost exclusively to fight their enemies.

The female mage clan of the Zann Esu is one of the oldest of the ancients clans, although very little is actually known about them. Centuries ago, back in the time of true magic, the fourteen powerful covens of the Esu witches gathered for the first time after generations of familial death. What they discussed is not known, but the witches left behind their former lives and, as a group, disappears into the Eastern jungles of Neitorp.

The exact location of their community is a big mystery, as the warps to their ever moving village keeps changing. Until recently, their only contact with the outside world occurred during the "Massacre of the Seven Archers".

Once every seven year of the "Esna Terif Letna" (New magic gathering), the Zann esu visit thirteen families across the world in hopes for recruiting new sorceresses. These families had one thing in common - they each had a seven year-old daughter, always good-natured and polite, the Zann Esu visitors would meet the girls, ask a few penetrating question, and then leave. One or two superior girls would be visited a second time and offered apprenticeships and introduction into the Zann Esu family. The families of those chosen lost a daughter but enjoyed good fortune and a newborn son.

The Zann Esu, or Sorceresses as they are generally known, are on a quest for purity, the pursuit of the "Curaga" (perfect) magic. They feel the other disciplines of magic are useless, and have instead chosen to focus strictly upon elemental magic. They mold the basic elements into whatever magical forms they need - threatening all other magic disciplines with obsolescence. 

In order to achieve perfection in these elemental transmutations, the daughter of the "Iaguena" (chosen) must stay in training until the third day after their thirteenth birthday. This training includes the basic elements of fire, lightning, and ice. Those who survive the training are then pushed into further training until the thirteenth day after their sixteenth birthday.

Those who survive the training are then pushed into a more difficult training, this "level two" training includes the advanced elements of fire, lightning, and ice. Those who survive that training are then offered the chance to go into further training, in which a sorceress must go into meditation and solitude for a short time, until the third day after their eighteenth birthday.

Those who chose to take this course must then gather three core ingredients across the world and deposit them into a certain place. The ingredients and the place of deposition are unknown to those not included in the rituals. Afterwards, the sorceress baths under moonlight and are blessed with the master spells and promised eternal peace in the afterworld. These "master" sorceress are called the "daughters of Sanctuary" with the highest known level of attunement to the magical elements.

Krile, one of the oldest sorceresses, was kind enough to share with the world, some descriptions of some expert spells. "Blizzard - This is the most offensive spell that this discipline has to offer. With the incantation and energy of the holy words, entire hordes of enemies are left frozen or dead, drowned in a hail of ice. Wretched survivors of this wintry storm can do little but crawl and lament their fallen kin betfore they, too, succumb to the cold" "Enchant - Upon learning this skill, an experienced Sorceress has the ability to imbue a weapon with the power of fire. The renowned Sorceress, Daggri, once assaulted the elemental planes themselves wielding such an enchanted knife. Her enemies soon came to fear the mention of the weapon as much as her name." "Telekinesis - With this skill a Sorceress can reach out with her mind and manipulate distant objects. By manipulating the Ether that permeates the World, she is even able to retrieve items out of her reach, or send her attacks to distant enemies. Useful to a cunning Sorceress, this spell rewards quick thinking to make the most of opportunities when they present themselves.

The Sorceresses believe that it is through the search for perfection that they will attain ultimate purity and ascend to their destined roles as the most powerful mages in the world. For centuries they have studied in secret, perfecting their art and biding their time until the Emergence of Evil. Then, they will face their greatest challenge, either proving the purity of their magic of fading from existence.

The Zann Esu oracles have decreed that the time of Emergence is at hand. The incident at the "Seven Archers Inn" has proven that the Emergence of Evil is at hand, and that it is their duty to exterminate it.

Sorceresses, The Sisters of the Zann Esu

The Neitorp Herald

By: Gladius Tristan

  
  


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The sands of time wait for no one.

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During the past century, after the Church of Cisum had gained prominence in the East, the Church decreed that the vision of God would be spread throughout the known world in order to redeem the masses of unholy and defiled souls. Thus, the Church selected a group of its most charismatic and devoted priests and sent them on a mission to proselytize the people of the West.

Unfortunately the Cisum had not prepared these men for the rigors of travel or the hazards of the world. Those priests who came through their rigorous missions recounted tales of harsh weather, inadequate supplies, attacks from bandits and even encounters with horrible monsters. To ensure the success of future missions, the Church set about training warriors, Paladins, to accompany and safeguard their missionaries.

Trained under the light of the holy church the Paladins were trained in mostly melee combat but in a little magic. The most righteous Paladins were given the manuscript of the powerful spell "Fist of the Heavens", known to strike lightning into an enemy and God's energy into those surrounding it. The Paladin's also used their shields as defense using it as a "large club".

Through the years Paladin's discovered auras, forced energy spread outward to protect the caster or damage the enemy. These are some examples of a paladin's aura (passage from the Book of Auras): "Holy Fire - With a hint of brimstone in the air, the noble Paladin strides into battle encased in this holy aura. All those in its range are burnt with the fires of divine virtue. Beware, Beast of Hell! The fire of purification is up you!" "Conviction - It is fearsome enough to behold the power of a Paladin, yet alone a Paladin aglow with the aura of Conviction. This halo of righteousness demonstrates, with force, the grim determination of those who shine within its brilliance. Any who stand against the Paladin and his allies will understand the meaning of folly."

A few spells however were not found alone . . . While scouting the area for his master's safety, a paladin found a sorceress gathering a powerful ingredient needed for a new spell. In exchange for not saying a word, she blessed him with the elements, teaching the Paladin how to send forth the power of fire, ice, and lightning, through his sword. This paladin, against his word, told his brethren the secret of the elemental sword and soon created a rift between the Cisum and the Zann Esu. This incident was cured however when that very Paladin, out of guilt, shared the knowledge of shields with the same Sorceress. This is why the sorceress now know the spell "Mana Shield", deriving power from lightning into a circle of outward energy. The elemental sword skill was called "vengeance" by the Paladin and was described by the Elder Scritium: "When a Paladin undertakes a crusade to banish evil, he is permitted to call upon the just souls of past crusades. Thus summoned, the spirits of the honorably vanquished manifest themselves and lend their energies to the weapons and transforms themselves into the elements of frigid cold, blazing fire, and shocking electricity to the Paladin and his party.

These "Protectors of the Word' proved to be more successful at converting the Native people than the Priests themselves, for they were assigned to defend, including people who were in need. Impressing the locals with daring deeds, powerful weapons, and holy actions was far more convincing then the condemnations and words of a soft-spoken monk. However, once the Word had been spread to every major city of the West, the "Protectors of the Word" faded from public view.

Decades later, right after the "Massacre of the Seven Archers" the Paladins were once again called into diving service. During the height of the time of Troubles, the Church commenced a second campaign of conversion. This time, however, the unconvincible were deemed to be evil. The Cisum Inquisition spread through the lands like a monsoon, laying waste to all suspected of demonic possession or corruption. Leading this crusade was a new generation of Paladins, known as the "Hand of Cisum". These cavaliers of righteousness swept through the lands, expunging the taint of demonic contamination wherever it was found. However, through this Holy Crusade came the slaughtering of innocent blood from the strict "holiness" that the Cisum required.

In the midst of this bloody crusade, a rebellion arose within the ranks of the Paladins of Cisum. The rebels condemned the methods of the Inquisition, proclaiming that their new Order of Paladins should protect the innocent, and that the evil corruption they fought was merely evidence of forebear's failure or ignorance of the people. Refusing to fight the church, the rebel group "White thumb of Cisum" left their Cisum brethren and ventured into the west.

Paladins, The Holy Protectors of the Word

The Tul Neilog Times

By: William Mastary


End file.
